I will turn 29 next Friday. The age seems important, although I can’t figure out exactly why. Because it’s the last year of my twenties, perhaps. Maybe just because it marks the start of another year.
I am afraid because I know that one can have great faith in something or someone and discover, painfully, how wrong one was. How nothing is ever certain or finally decided. How we can lose so much so quickly.
I used to think that I would be married and have a baby on the way by now. It just seemed logical, obvious, assured. Now that another year of my life is drawing to a close, I am considering how silly it was to think my life would follow a typical course. I certainly didn’t think I’d be closing in on 30 with no real direction in my life, no great drive to be anywhere or do anything much. My peers and friends are marrying off and having children, although no one very close to me these days is following a very typical course, either. My close friends don’t have regular work weeks, or spouses, or mortgages, or salaries, or retirement funds. I fit right in with the misfits.
I always thought I was destined for greatness of some sort. I am, so they tell me, attractive, intelligent, clever and funny and talented. Blessed. It seems such a waste that I should be doing so little with any of it. I have created nothing worthwhile or lasting. I’ve done nothing very noble or grand. I have always been told that I have great potential, but I’m not inclined any longer to strive toward anything much. I don’t feel particularly interested in or passionate about anything. I’m bored and aimless and oddly indifferent to it all. I don’t care, and I don’t care that I don’t care.
Maybe this new year will bring change. Maybe I’ll discover forgotten or unknown passion for something– anything. Maybe I’ll get shaken up enough to do something interesting with my life. I hope whatever’s coming isn’t too painful. I’d like inspiration, not panic, to be my motivator this year.